The Victory March
by Taisi
Summary: He remembers Robin crying at Enies Lobby, faced with a faith she didn't know how to be worthy of. On the receiving end, Sanji understands how intimidating it is, to be loved so much. How small she must have felt, in the presence of their staggering belief in her. (In which Sanji doesn't know how to be rescued.) Manga spoilers, nakamaship.


A/N: (rises from the op grave after that new chapter to give sanji the happy ending he deserves)

* * *

Sanji runs reverent fingers across the smooth, polished wood of the counter in his kitchen. It feels as though he hasn't been here in years, and yet the Sunny is as much home to him as the Baratie ever was. She seems happy to have him back, the familiar croak of wood and rigging as good as any welcome.

His wrists are bruised, but his hands are whole. Franky and Usopp made short work of the exploding bracelets, his technically-inclined nakama freeing him from the cold metal in a manner of minutes. They were cold with hatred for his father, his siblings, and crushed the bracelets into pieces where Sanji's family could see.

Not family, he corrects himself. _Former_ family.

Everything in his kitchen is exactly how he left it. It's seven practiced steps to the pantry, another four back to the fridge, and cooking oil is warming in a medley of pans on the stovetop. They'll need to stop for food soon, pick up fresh red meat and fresh fruits, but there are plenty of fish in the aquarium to make a good meal.

The crew needs a good meal. They're all exhausted, having pushed themselves to the brink of their abilities and right over what they're capable of, redefining their own limitations out of a stubborn loyalty that shakes Sanji to his core. He remembers Robin crying at Enies Lobby, faced with a faith she didn't know how to be worthy of.

On the receiving end, Sanji understands how intimidating it is, to be loved so much. How small she must have felt, in the presence of their staggering belief in her.

Robin, at least, said thank you. Sanji doesn't know how to do that. How to make two words _enough_ for what they've done.

"Ah, Sanji," a dear voice says from the doorway. Little hooves patter into the galley, and then Chopper is a warm weight against his leg. "You're making dinner already? Oh, good!"

When Sanji looks up, it's to find Nami standing with him, a lithe figure leaning against the counter. Her expression is inscrutable, and like a coward, Sanji faces Chopper instead.

Their doctor scolded Luffy soundly once they set sail. With the way his rubber body works, it was _foolish_ to refuse food, especially given the extent of his injuries. But Luffy had made a promise, in the form of a threat, and he's especially stubborn about those. The first thing he ate after Sanji had pummeled him into the ground was the half-dozen apples Sanji had forced into his hands, to tide him for the precious few moments it would take to put together a slipshod meal.

And Luffy was shaking by the time Sanji handed over a sandwich, so badly that Zoro set aside his tankard to reach over and steady his hands. His green eyes were sharp and heated, like swords or molten steel; but when they passed over Sanji, they didn't cut or burn. It was the way he looked at Usopp, and Chopper, and Nami when they cried. Sanji wasn't crying, but maybe that wasn't the point.

"Doctor's orders," Sanji replies, and even manages a smile for the reindeer. "Lots of protein and vitamin C, isn't that right?"

"Right!" Chopper confirms, beaming back at him. He's bright-eyed with joy, young enough yet that sorrow and triumph are still black and white, and one can't permeate the other. Sanji envies him.

A tanned hand slips into his line of sight, and Nami is tilting his chin up. Her grip is firm, and her eyes, when he meets them, are without anger. Her eyes remind him of Zoro's, of the way she can burn just as fiercely for her nakama as their first mate can.

She strokes his cheek with her thumb, where there's still a pale yellow bruise left from how hard she hit him, days ago. Sanji swallows hard, but the lump in the back of his throat only swells larger.

"Forgive me?" she asks quietly.

"There's nothing to forgive," Sanji all but whispers, disbelieving.

"In that case," Nami says, far too knowing, "stop hiding in your kitchen. Stop acting like you don't deserve to be here. If you don't, then neither do I. Neither does Robin, or Usopp. We've _all_ been here before, right where you are. Being rescued by him, and taken back by him, when we never thought it could happen."

He can't look away, held in place by her conviction and the small hand cradling his cheek, so he closes his eyes. Nami holds him for a moment longer, then drops her hand.

"So you'll have dinner with us?" It's hardly a question. The only correct answer is yes. So he nods, and opens his eyes in time to see her smile.

Nami shoos Chopper out of the kitchen, easily speaking over his stream of concerned questions, and leaves the galley door open behind her; baring the kitchen to the music and commotion outside. The room is brighter and fuller now, with sunlight and laughter filling all the empty space. Sanji braces himself against the counter, feeling brittle and shaken and small.

The silly, playful melody Brook is strumming on a guitar transitions abruptly into something familiar. It's met with a round of cheers, and then Luffy's boisterous, boyish voice is carrying above everything else, leading his crew in a jolly rendition of Bink's Sake.

And Sanji's heart settles – slowly, surely, in a way that will keep. Sunny hums around him, soft and certain, and Sanji nods to her. Turns back to the half-peeled potatoes in the sink, and picks up his paring knife again.

By the time dinner comes, he'll be brave enough to reclaim his place by their side.

Sanji works slowly. He's still trembling, and he doesn't want to risk cutting these hands his nakama saved. The meal will take longer to prepare like this, but they'll wait for him.

He knows they'll wait for him.


End file.
